Waiting on a Friend - Part Nine

 

DISCLAIMER: Love to Pete Townshend for providing (with his band) an interlude in this chapter.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When last we met our heroes: Buffy and Anya weren't dealing well with the boys' absence; Dawn told Wesley about her Thames-twinges, and our Wes concocted a plan involving Lilah; Giles and Spike, in a fit of self-sacrifice, went Below. This chapter: STILL Wednesday night, good grief.

Imran Cumberbatch paid the mini-cab driver, then watched the car speed away. Night-mist had turned to rain, a cold sheet of water between him and the red taillights of cars turning onto the Embankment road.

He stood there in the rain, looking at the Thames. Grey night-sky reflected off turbulent waves that moved aggressively against boats, the pier, the Albert Bridge. The water seemed to be chewing.

Then he turned to look at the Giles house. Lights gleamed golden in the windows of the ground floor, seeming to proclaim warmth and refuge from rain and river's threat. He knew better. He was going to help a family nearly drowning in fear.

He fervently hoped that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's plan worked.

***

"Great. Plan. Giles." Spike's voice sounded rather odd, Giles thought fuzzily-- until he realized that his own weight was crushing the vampire's face into the floor.

"Oh sorry, sorry," he said, and rolled off (paying special attention to the sword he still carried). It was pleasant to lie on smooth dry rock, he decided, and he would lie here just a bit longer. Perhaps until it didn't feel as if someone had just scrubbed off his top layer of skin with an extremely sharp implement.

Beside him, Spike made drama-prince noises about bodily pain-- "bugger, just break my nose next time," that sort of thing-- which Giles ignored. He was resting. Meanwhile, Spike scrambled up to his knees. "Right then. Briefcase, briefcase, there it is."

"Why on earth did you bring that thing?" Giles asked, eyes closed.

The briefcase clicked open. Giles re-opened one eye to see Spike drag out his thermos, unscrew its top, and chug down its entire contents.

This reminded him-- if he were going to throw himself into some death-battle against a malignant Lady, he'd need a little something. Spike the Insensitive finished his snack and licked his lips to get any stray drop of hemoglobin. Giles said, "Hang on. What about me?"

"Wanker, why didn't you pack yourself something?" Giles closed both eyes again. No need to explain that he hadn't actually reckoned on being in the Lady's domain at suppertime. Spike rustled through the contents of his briefcase, then his coat pockets. "Hold out your hand, then."

Giles flopped a hand open, then felt small disks pour into it. He struggled up to rest on his elbows and looked at what Spike had given: seven, no, nine extra-strong mints. "How very generous of you."

Shrugging, Spike said, "The Queen occasionally has issues with blood-breath. Always carry 'em." He popped the last two into his mouth. Giles went ahead and bit into his own share, which tasted of river-water and wool.

Spike finished crunching, then sat back on his heels. He rummaged through the briefcase again and pulled out the torch-- which naturally enough didn't work. "Spike old son, water likely got into the battery case. That is an ex-torch."

Spike glared at him. "You start a Python routine, mate, swear I'm off to save London and face a hero's dusting all on my own."

Giles sucked on a mint remnant, then swallowed. "Speaking of that, we probably should be on our way." For the first time he looked at their surroundings. The domain Below seemed like a cross between a Great Hall and a cave: polished smooth rock on the floor, luminous red clay pillars along the walls. An arch signaled the way out.

"Can you feel it?" Spike asked, his eyes on the archway.

"Yes. We're being called to the center of her power."

"Better answer, then." Spike snapped shut the briefcase, got to his feet, then gave Giles a hand up. Rupert's bones protested at the movement-- hadn't bloody finished resting. But it was time.

They walked through the arch into a gleaming corridor. Giles couldn't figure out the light source, but the black stone reflected red light. Charming vision of hell. He and Spike sighed simultaneously, then started to hike.

His steps fell into a rhythm, and he found himself mentally chanting 'Anya' in time. But he couldn't allow himself to think her name, too much love and guilt; he tripped at the stab of pain. Catching himself, he took a deep breath then said, "So, Spike. I have a death-march question for you."

"If the question is who's my favourite Python, the answer is Sod Off."

"Tosser." Spike chuckled and kept moving. Giles said, "No, I was wondering. Why haven't you ever told me about William Bennet?"

The briefcase fell out of Spike's hand at that, hitting stone then cracking open. Most of its contents fell out, and Spike chuckled again, mirthlessly. "William the Wanker strikes again." He bent down to pick up the items, stuffing them back in, but he stopped when he got to the rather soggy paper and pencils. His hands danced over them before he threw the lot against the wall. "You know, I bloody hate cheap metaphor."

"Ah. Did you learn that at Oxford? I read your transformation story, you know. Gleaned a few facts. Interesting we went to the same college, did you know? Both got Firsts--"

"Oh, we're fucking twins, mate. Were you also a soppy romantic fool? A clumsy prat who armoured himself in scholarship, crap poetry and an arrogant belief in his own worth and intellect? An arse who couldn't see past the end of his nose but worshiped what he thought was beauty and truth?" Spike stopped himself, then bent and picked up his dagger from the debris. Expressionlessly he said, "You should be glad William Bennet died."

"Seems to me that William-- arrogant, well-read, likes to hear himself talk, romantic fool-- is still very much around. Just mixed with 120 years of blood and experience."

"Damn sure of yourself, old man. There speaks the artist formerly known as Ripper?" Spike began to stride down the corridor.

Can't walk away from yourself, boy, Giles thought. He said, "Let's just say I was happier when I accepted that Ripper's not as former as I once thought he was."

Spike kept going. "Yeah. Truth? It's a hell of a lot easier for me to co-exist with a demon than with William. At least my conscience can control the bloody beast." He swung around, glared, and said acerbically, "Giles, you're a bastard for making me go all wet and confessional when we're about to re-enact the Charge of the Sodding Light Brigade. This whole trip down the Oxford High is just so you don't have to think about Anyanka, isn't it?"

"Now it's my turn to say Sod Off." Giles moved ahead, walking faster. Not that it would help.

"Stupid git." Spike caught up to him. "All right then, let's go kill something."

"Yes, it's time we found our way to the center."

And Giles laughed when Spike muttered, "I bloody HATE cheap metaphor."

***

Wesley sat alone at the table in the Knightsbridge bar, moodily swirling his glass. Scotch at this fine establishment wasn't cheap, Lilah knew, but he suddenly threw back the entire contents as if it were water. He didn't even flinch at the alcohol burn. Ah, seemed like old times.

"Getting started without me, darling?" Lilah put her hand on his shoulder, annoyed when he didn't respond. She sat down, almost close enough to touch the rain-chill on his face. The wood-smoke and sex scent that was powerfully Wesley, which had so shocked her the first time she'd gotten close to him, invaded her breathing.

"Hullo, Lilah." He turned those blue eyes on her. "I'm surprised you came."

"It's a rare thing for you to call me. I was intrigued." She put her hand on his thigh, then brushed it up an inch or two. Ah, there was a response.

"Of course." The server came by, and Wes indicated another for himself and one for her. He knew that they drank the same thing, were the same. Her nails pressed lightly into his leg in pleasure. He caught his breath, then said, "No, what surprises me is that you're still in town. Weren't you calling me about a 'tide of death' just last night? Urging me to leave?"

"Perhaps it was just a ploy to get your attention before I leave tomorrow." She accepted her glass from the server, then sipped. Smooth golden smoke sex-- she flashed back to the last time she and Wesley had connected, the satisfaction and the chill. "You're a bastard, but I like you."

"Because I'm a bastard, I suppose." He took a drink of his own. "Odd that I saw you on the river today."

Lilah had another sip. She didn't want to think about that second trip on the Thames, with the Nullat not just confirming what the Bruxit had seen but giving the specific location of destruction to come. "Yes, and I saw you with the little girl. Sister of the Slayer? Hardly your type, I think."

Wesley looked at her. "Evasion. Could the queen of slaughter be worried?"

"And why would I tell you, Wesley? What would you give me?"

"What you want." Leaning forward, he touched his mouth to her most sensitive spot on the back of the neck; then he nipped. She shuddered. His mouth trailed forward to the nerve endings at a pulse point and took a small bite there. Marked her. Under the table his fingers slid over her thigh and up, marking her again. "If that's what you want."

"One night wasn't enough, Wesley. Wouldn't be now. Even if you're no longer working with Angel, Wolfram and Hart are still interested in your... talents." It was hard to concentrate with his fingers there, she thought hazily, but she summoned all her powers of detachment. She wouldn't think about waves of pleasure, but waves of cold and rain. "You can't go back. You can only go forward, with me."

"Already knew that. So if you answer what I ask, Lilah--" and his fingers twisted in a way that made her swallow a moan--"and I'll go with you. I'll give you what you want."

She didn't trust him. Still, she always could reassert control. And she wanted him. She wanted him to drown in her.

***

Buffy didn't really trust Watchers or the Council, of course. Yet she'd left Dawn in the study with Imran Cumberbatch, talking earnestly about energy-patterns and green glowy-ness and blood. Cumberbatch was adding to Giles's notes from earlier days. This was such a Moo Guy thing to do, naturally, but he seemed personally invested in the process to help Spike and Giles. Did it take a Watcher to save a Watcher, she wondered, or did it take a Key? Apparently Slayer strength was of no use, not that she allowed herself to think about that.

Here in the warm kitchen, she didn't have to think. Anya stood over the kettle, waiting for water to heat. She had offered tea "because Rupert would want you to have some." There was something off in the phrasing (not that Anya's word choice didn't usually seem weird), as if Giles were already gone. Which he was not, Buffy assured herself.

The water began to whistle its readiness, but Anya didn't move. Buffy went over, only to see her weeping softly. "Okay, why are you crying now?"

"Why aren't you?" The question was precise, even through tears. "I want Rupert home, and I can't do anything. Don't you love Spike? Don't you want him here?"

"Yes! But I can feel him if I try--" Buffy broke off, eyes widening. She was an idiot sometimes. "Anya, I can feel his moods if I try. I could tell if, I mean, THAT he and Giles are still there. When I felt him in the graveyard... wait, that sounds wrong... anyway, he was worried and upset but okay."

"The process sounds bizarre. Not to mention impractical." Anya switched off the kettle. "When you say you can 'feel his moods', what do you mean?"

"God, aren't you supposed to be the literal one?" Buffy snapped. "I mean, if I clear my mind and reach out, there's a connection; I call it a bridge sometimes. Okay, it sounds lame, but I can do it. And maybe you could too."

Anya and Buffy looked at each other, and at the sight of hope in brown eyes, Buffy's irritation drained away. Anya said, "Show me." She raised her hands, palms facing Buffy, who mirrored the action. They interlocked fingers.

"Clear your mind. No panic, no fear. Deep breaths," Buffy said. She did the same, distantly hearing Anya's breathing regularize. "Now. Think of him. Only of him."

Buffy centered and reached out. There was more interference, more blocks, but once again she managed to connect. "I can tell-- oh my God, he hurts so much."

"Rupert is so sad, oh no, I can't--"

"Don't lose it, Anya." Buffy concentrated harder, re-establishing connection. She felt Spike: his love, grief, determination. She sent it all back to him, a wave of her devotion and longing. Anya gripped her hands hard, and a jolt of energy from both of them passed out across the bridge.

Then they dropped arms and stared at each other. Anya spoke first. "Did you feel that last thing? What the hell are they doing?"

***

Spike stopped in the middle, and he and Rupert looked at each other. "Mate, did you feel that? Did you feel something like, er, Buffy in your head?"

"Anya, actually." Giles coughed a bit. "As if there were some kind of psychic emotional transference? Of some kind?"

"Rupes, you said 'of some kind' twice." Spike wasn't really paying attention, because he was savouring the taste of Buffy's mood. She loved him, she missed him, she was bloody furious at him: yeah, that was his Queen. But he couldn't afford to enjoy it. Had to keep moving.

Apparently Rupert had the same thought, because he said briskly, "Right then. Where were we?"

"I'm indulging you, Dad, you know that?" Giles rolled his eyes. "Oh bloody hell. First verse again?"

Giles nodded, then smacked the flat of his sword on his shoulder as he walked. He began to sing, loud enough to echo off polished stone: "I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name--"

"He said you can go sleep at home tonight if you can get up and walk away," Spike bellowed. He spun his dagger between his fingers, then lengthened his stride to match Giles's.

Together the two Watchers walked down the corridor toward the pull of the Lady, and together they sang, "I staggered back to the underground, and the breeze blew back my hair..."

***

Not too far away, the Lady raised her head to listen. She knew the fools were coming; after all, she had let them in. She just didn't know why.

She sat on her throne and breathed. In the center of the center, the One glowed red with hunger and pain. The rivers were rising: the St Pancras, the Fleet, the Westbourne, those others lost to her. Soon they would burst Above and drown those humans who built, who stole, who sunk deeper into her territory. She would take back what should have been hers for all of human time.

Yet the fools still came, singing words she faintly could hear. "'Who are you? Who, who, who, who? I really wanna know.'"

***

The door to her hotel room crashed open under the weight of two bodies. Wesley had claimed as much of Lilah as he could, hands cupping her arse, thigh pressed up and in, tongue delving in her mouth. He knew what she liked, didn't he.

She moaned deep in her throat, then broke free to say, "You remember who's in charge here, right?"

"Absolutely." Wes bit her shoulder through her blouse, and she wrapped her hands in his hair, pressing his head down. Through a mouthful of almost indistinguishable Lilah-skin and silk, he mumbled, "Bed?"

She arched against him and said, "You find it, goddamnit."

So, his fingers diving below the waistband of her skirt just so she wouldn't feel neglected, he raised his head. Wardrobe; mini-bar; desk with laptop and scattered papers; ah-ha, antique bed with slotted headboard. He removed his hand after one last stroke through wet folds, then pushed her hard. And he shut the door.

She fell across the room, growling and laughing at the same time. "You can get away with that once, Wesley. Now come here." Shoes were already gone, and she threw her jacket across the room. Then she slithered onto the bed.

Wesley watched her, so graceful and cool against the satin comforter. He let his jacket fall, then crossed to her side. His mouth took hers, tongue deep and hard, and he settled his weight on her. She purred against his invasion, both bodies thrumming with the need for more.

He lifted his head to stare at her. Creamy skin flushed, perfect hair disheveled, she didn't look like the terror of Wolfram and Hart's Special Projects division. Then she opened those cold eyes. "What are you looking at?"

"You." He licked, then blew lightly on her neck. "Who are you, Lilah?"

"You know who I am, she said, then pulled on his hair, positioning his mouth above her breast. "And you've promised me what I want."

Wesley evaded her grasp. "Indeed I did." He moved down between her legs, lifting one high and caressing behind the knee. Stockings, of course. Setting the leg down and reaching under her skirt, he snapped garters against both thighs. The small pain made her moan. Deftly he unhooked all the fastenings, fingers caressing as he did.

He began to roll one stocking down, then hesitated. After sliding down into position, he licked the red mark left by the garter on that leg, then nipped. She jerked in pleasure, and his free hand went up to capture hers, thumb stroking across her knuckles. He continued to roll the stocking down, always exposing new skin for his mouth, tongue and teeth to taste, pulling Lilah to arch higher as he moved down. She had gone pliant, almost liquid.

When the stocking was off, he stopped and let go of her hand. "Damn it, Wesley," she managed."

He nibbled on her instep, and she fell back against the pillows. "Will you answer what I ask you?" he said softly. His other hand reached to roll the other stocking down, as he still nipped and kissed at nerve-endings.

"What do you think?" she breathed.

And suddenly his weight was pinning her down, one of her stockings serving to tie her hands together before she could process or protest. Once he'd secured the knot, he looked into her eyes. "I think I can't trust you at all."

She deliberately wiped all expression from her face, but he could feel the trip-beat of her heart speeding. "What do you think you're doing?"

He took the other stocking, moved her locked wrists above her head, and tied her to a slot in the headboard. She tried to get a knee up, but he ground her down into the comforter. And he tried hard not to enjoy it. She expelled a breath, and he said, "I'm curious. What do you think I'm doing?"

"I couldn't imagine," she said, an answer that wasn't an answer.

"For a conscienceless lawyer, you are a shockingly bad judge of character. But then we knew that." He got up and went to the bedside phone. Pulling a card out of his back pocket, he checked the number and punched it in. "Wyndham-Pryce. Please come on up. Room 320, door should be unlocked."

Lilah started to protest, but he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stuffed it into her mouth. "Oh don't worry, it's clean," he said when outraged sounds made their way through the linen. Then he turned to the desk.

First thing, he rubbed his hands with a quick dab of dry cleanser he knew she kept in her briefcase. Then, he saw it: a memo right on top of the rest of her papers. He picked it up, then had to grab the desk to steady himself. According to the findings of a Nullat demon-- ah, the blank chap on the pier-- the Thames Fissure was most sensitive, the membrane between dimensions thinnest, in two places. One of course was the Portal in the St. Pancras watercourse, which had taken Spike and Giles. The other, verified by the Nullat, was between the Albert and Battersea Bridges, on the river itself. Oh Jesus.

A knock at the door startled him, and he turned to see two women, the brunette of whom carried a case and a mobile, enter. "Yes, hullo. Ms. Goodwin?"

The attractive brunette walked forward and shook his hand. "Mr. Wyndham-Pryce. I believe we met on Tuesday, when I processed your paperwork for the Council."

"Yes, of course. So glad Cumberbatch could reach you on such short notice." Ignoring the furious sound emanating from the trussed-up figure on the bed, he turned to the other woman and repeated the small ritual. "Ms. Jenkins, correct? Good to meet you."

Goodwin went over to Lilah, looming over her. "Good evening, Ms. Morgan. I'm Rosemary Goodwin, and this is Emily Jenkins; we're part of the Human Resources team at the Council of Watchers. We understand that you and your firm have information which might be useful in the retrieval of our colleagues."

Jenkins stood beside Goodwin. "We're afraid we'll have to ask you a few questions."

Wesley plucked his handkerchief out of Lilah's mouth; she wasn't making a sound now, and her eyes were opaque. Fastidiously he dropped the cloth into a bedside basket. "I'll be taking this memo along, Ms. Goodwin-- it seems to have some of what we need. But do call Cumberbatch's mobile with any further information you might, er, extract."

"We'll be happy to." Ms. Goodwin smiled warmly at him, then shifted her attention. Somehow, Wesley thought, the smile looked different when it was aimed at Lilah. Well, the division wasn't called Hell Resources for nothing.

After he picked up his jacket, he couldn't help but turn back. Lilah still looked at him. She said, soft and chill, "Do you think you're not alone now, just because of your little group and your little friends? I think we know better, Wesley."

He smiled. "Yes, I think we know the truth."

***

Dawn thought the little group in the study, all gathered around the tea and cookie-things, looked weirdly kind of normal. Cumberbatch accepted his cup of tea, then said, "You say you contacted them? Through some sort of telepathy?"

"No, not really. We can't transfer thoughts or anything," Buffy said.

"For instance, we don't know why they were so damn amused with themselves in the middle of sadness and quite properly missing us," Anya explained. She was so thoroughly irritated that all un-Anya-like weepiness had disappeared, Dawn thought, which was totally comforting.

Buffy finished, "But we can get their attention. And we will."

Dawn jumped in her seat. Finally, her turn! "But that's after I try to open the door with Key-ness, whenever we find out where another one is? That's what Wesley is finding out?"

Cumberbatch nodded. Buffy said with a determination Dawn knew way too well, "Then I go down, kick this Lady's butt, and pull them out of there."

"And then we kick THEIR butts, in a way that doesn't damage them for the wedding." Dawn giggled at the fierceness of Anya's words and the high-five Buffy gave her right after. They really were going to do this.

***

In the last room they had stopped singing, when the call of Dark power had almost crushed them. Spike could feel his fingers itching around his dagger, and Rupes was gripping that sword bloody tight. Before them loomed the biggest archway of all, and from beyond it came the sounds of crackling and gnawing.

He and Giles looked at each other. Time to do this.

They burst into the Center together, then skidded to a stop. A female figure, perched on a chair of polished bone and rock, stood at their entrance. She extended clawed fingers to the cavern's roof, opened her wolf-like mouth, and howled. Oh bugger bugger bugger, Spike thought.

And Giles said with a small quaver in his voice, "Mate, I think I owe you a fiver."

 

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